Slow, Steady, Still
Slow, Steady, Still, a self portrait series reflecting life in quarantine…
2020
This is the slow motion recording: me holding a curtain in front of my mind and letting it go, ever so slowly, as words and images fall from the fabric. There’s suffering in vulnerability. Exposure makes it better.
So here I sit, in a red, vintage chair that cost $69, trying to remember every thought. I imagine these essays as letters dropping from my fingers while I digest a time in my life that’s still sitting in my stomach.
The world is spinning around me with words I’ve only read: pandemic, global virus, quarantine, self isolation. They say this has never happened before. They said this would happen. Conspiracies and fears and tears weave their way through our collective conscious. And as I walk around in circles lost and confused, I’m just trying to find where the lines are drawn. I wonder why simple things have to be so complex.
There is now emptiness in the space I had carved for my future. I hoped I was psychic, that I knew everything to come. I buried my head in memoirs, spiritual practices and astrological readings begging for answers. And now, here they are all wrapped into one: nothing is promised. Some of the best lessons are cloaked as tragedies. The pandemic is a wake up call I can’t silence.
It’s sad that our silver linings are filled with fire; that horror was necessary to remind us of what’s important, to reveal all of the things we so often neglect. Maybe our attention is the miracle.
As I release this curtain, I define the part I must play. And though I may be insulated from the world I thought I knew; my voice remains. The curtain is dropping. Slow. Steady. Still.
All the things we love and ruin. I find myself back on the couch. I imagine all the days ahead. I feel as if I’ve won a lottery consisting of hundreds of hours, at risk to lose it all because I’ve never had this much time to spend.
As I remain inside, the picture lives in my mind. I’m mostly confined, exposed as Subject or concealed as Photographer. Rarely do they intertwine. Standing behind the camera, I direct a scene I won’t see till the end. Waiting for the shutter, I imagine what the frame I embody will say. Thus, like a film set low on budget, I oscillate back and forth between every role. There’s this sort of raw existence, a relinquishing of control and an isolated space that leaves me longing for continuity.
Though this modality of communication has a dozen parts, I love it fiercely as it allows me to produce something out of nothing on a planet that feels entirely out of reach. It encourages me to get up early though I have nowhere to go. It forces me to work through frustration with minimal light. It challenges me to balance my camera on a sink in a 6x6 bathroom so I can squeeze between the wall and the toilet for a portrait in what’s left of the sun setting fast. It welcomes me feeling lonely and leaves me filled with hope.
Remarkably, self portraiture teaches me how to live a life I’m not used to as I dance and stumble and fall and recover through a world completely out of my control.
My chest is tight, wound like a coiled hose. I attempt to stretch. I face the windows while lying back with my lower body on the couch and my upper body on the floor. I don’t like being upside down but I’d rather feel discomfort in my head than in my heart. My eyes gaze at the soft blue tile on the outside of the record player console. I trace the white lines separating each piece and think of Christmas. I wonder how many hours have passed since and then I forget what day it is. Does it matter? I leave the couch, blood rushing back, only to be reminded of the strange, constricting feeling in my chest. Maybe a puzzle will distract me. I sit at the dining room table and stare at the box, constructed of timeless popsicles and decide I’ll organize by color: light blue, lighter blue, hot pink, pale pink, deep red, bright red. I wonder if I’m wasting time. There are so many things I could be doing to self improve. Michelle Obama smiles at me from her memoir. I flip the book upside down frustrated that I still haven’t opened the cover. The puzzle pieces start blending. I’m stuck on the fudgsicle section. Light blue and lighter blue look the same and now I’m thinking of scrubs and masks. Invisible enemies rising from dirty hands, unwiped counters, worn in clothes, uncovered coughs. Joy filled, germ infested gatherings. I grimace. It’s taken a lot for us to practice duties that have lay static, begging for our attention. Washing our hands thoroughly for 20 seconds requires a sickness for motivation and a superficial, modern tune for discipline. Where did my mind just go? Our world is moving fast. I can see it spinning. I sit down in front of the record player. I run my pointer finger along the textured lines of the tiles. I glance at the clock. 10 minutes have passed. We’re on pause.
I woke earlier than usual. Though, what is usual? Dazed and still half dreaming, I walked towards the kitchen for a glass of water, only to be struck out of my stupor by the sun rising, it’s warm glare beaming through our foggy French doors. Forgetting my thirst, I stood in that light for not one moment nor two.
I’m not sure how long.
You know when something beautiful happens and you realize it was there all along, but you were moving too quickly to notice? That’s what this was like. Slow meant still. Still meant steady. I started creating more space to see things that were there all along. I read my book on the deck so I could watch the light strike the back of our neighbor’s garage door before making its way across my face. I saw Spring in star jasmine but felt Summer in the balmy breeze. The yellow buds started growing out of the cactus across the street. Were those there last year? A ladybug landed on my finger. She lingered. I loved it. I ran a time 3 seconds faster and felt like I had just won everything I wanted in life. I talked to my friend from 10 feet afar, a screen door between us, but I could still feel her endless love; her sweet energy embracing me. Dusk glowed through our stain glass, reflecting colors of deep orange and olive green across our walls.
All the busy people are finally realizing success doesn’t have to be turbulent. And I’m leaning into the things I really care about. The sun rising then setting, Jack’s hand in mine, loquats laced through blue ribbon, captivating memoirs, sweet and savory muesli, Sam Cooke on vinyl, a deep conversation that leaves you satisfied - even though it’s virtual.
No mood is permanent. The ground is unsteady beneath me. I’m reborn over and over and over again in these days that carry on; unrushed by the world’s woes. I can feel you going through these continuous reincarnations with me. Bumpy, uncomfortable, loud and sad. But I’m forgetting the ant pile I stepped in; the gate obstructing my view; the knots in my stomach or the bad news I received that morning. I’m choosing: Real. Raw. Possible. I can see a scene painted with light and every time I stop, I remember: my perspective determines my reality.
This is a silent Monday morning. The peaceful outcry you refused to see.
Thus, I will not rest. Do not tell me to rest. I will rest when I must.
We are a state of being. Our vision, steadfast and strong, comes from an imagined world intangible to the reality we know.
It has always existed though you have refused to see it.
And even still, you are so caught up in your performance that you have all but forgotten the part you have played in our struggle.
The majority is wrapped up in reaction – yet, it is the cause, not the effect, that has carried us to this black swan event.
My disdain carries me back to every prejudice I have ever witnessed or absorbed – in your liberal Los Angeles and your enlightened Austin; from your progressive Nashville to your evolved Charlottesville. You must understand: the culture of our cities is not void of the history of our country. The hatred exists because it is embedded in our tale.
And thus, I am beckoned to storytell without a face nor a crowd. My personal protest looks like the embodiment of my brothers and sisters: mindfulness.
